No Cherubs for Melanie (22 page)

DCI Bryan edged back in his seat and held his information to ransom. “You tell me what you know first.”

She eyed him suspiciously, sizing up his motives, and decided she had nothing to lose. “Basically, all I know is what he told me, which you already know. But I do have something else.”

It wasn't much, just a scrap of newspaper, but she drew it out of her handbag like a conjurer's silk scarf. “Gordonstone's funeral,” she said, holding the picture in front of his face. “Recognize anyone?”

He scanned it seriously. “No… I don't think so.”

“There,” she pointed testily. “Behind a gravestone. Isn't that Edwards?”

He squinted hard. “It certainly could be, but I can only see part of his face.”

“What's he doing there?”

“If it is him.”

She double-checked. “I'm sure it's him.”

Taking the picture from her, Bryan gave it a long thoughtful stare. “Maybe he took a personal interest after the death of Gordonstone's wife.”

“But that was ten years ago.”

Topping up her glass to indicate that the subject was going no further, he asked, “Have you heard from your dad?”

“What is this, Chief Inspector,” she said with a smile, “the old tender trap routine? Soften me up and catch me with my pants down?”

He raised his eyebrows. “You said it —”

She cut him off sharply. “I was speaking metaphorically.”

They sat in silence as the hors d'oeuvres plates were swept away by an almost invisible waiter.

“I thought we were here to discuss why you blew up Dad's flat,” she continued, her staring eyes reflecting her seriousness.

“I didn't blow up your dad's flat,” he protested, moving a small vase of sweet-peas from the table's centre to see her better.

“Well…” she started to remonstrate, but he stopped her with a wagging finger.

“We used a stun grenade, that's all. It just disorientates someone long enough to stop them hurting themselves 'til we get to them.”

“What about his television? You certainly stunned that.”

“Collateral damage,” he replied with a throwaway gesture. “We'll buy him a new one. The biggest screen Sony makes if he wants.”

“What about the fucking… Sorry, what about his cat? Your guys stunned him all right.”

“I'm sorry, but I thought I was doing the right thing.”

Her raised eyebrows invited him to explain, if he could.

He tried, sombrely. “When I went to see your dad, he said something that made me think it wouldn't take a lot to push him over the edge. I even got the impression that he was considering… ” He glanced up at her, checking the effect of his words. Her concerned expression showed understanding, so Bryan left his fear unspoken and continued. “I made light of it, but it worried me. Edwards said your dad had a gun in the flat and when he wouldn't answer the door I thought he might actually do himself in.”

“But the flat was empty.”

“I didn't know that. The silly sod had left the telly on.”

Samantha blushed. “I left the TV on. Not Dad.”

“You what?”

“Well, I didn't know you were going to bomb the place.”

“We didn't…”

“OK, OK. You didn't bomb it. Anyway, I'd left the TV on as company for his cat.” She'd almost got the words out before her face crumpled at the memory and tiny tears squeezed down her cheeks.

He handed her his napkin. “I am sorry Samantha. I really thought I was doing the right thing.”

“Killing his cat,” she sniffled.

“No. That was an accident. He attacked one of the men.”

“Wouldn't you if someone had just blown your eardrums to smithereens and smashed down your front door?”

“I suppose I would.”

“Thank you for that, Chief Inspector,” she said, straightening her face and blowing her nose loudly,
oblivious to the grimacing couple at the next table. “But what's this got to do with Edwards?”

“Edwards told everyone your dad had a gun.”

“I didn't know Dad had a gun.”

“Neither did the firearms department. I checked. He didn't even have a certificate. He wasn't even authorized to carry. His authority was suspended when he went sick.”

“So why did Edwards say that?”

Another waiter, young and flashy with a sharp beaked nose and a scary hairstyle, managed to turn a performance of de-boning a Dover sole into a pantomime, giving Bryan a chance to consider his answer. Samantha used the interlude to fix her tear-streaked make-up.

“What do you think?” Bryan replied eventually, as the waiter went in search of vegetables.

She made him wait for a response, seemingly probing among the
poireau a la Milanaise
for a clue. “I don't know,” she said finally, flipping a healthy portion of leeks onto her plate. “Maybe he thought Dad did have a gun.” Then realization dawned and she slowly raised her head and caught a look in his eyes. “Or… Are you suggesting what I think you're suggesting?”

“Maybe.”

Incredulity strained her voice. “You're saying Edwards wanted somebody to shoot him. To kill my dad?”

“All I know is, Edwards knew that with an armed man in the place we'd have to go in heavy handed.

She digested Bryan's revelation, struggling with a mouthful of fish, her appetite fading. “But there wasn't an armed man in there; just a defenceless old cat.” Her tears started again. “I love my dad, Peter.”

“I know.”

“He can be a bit of a nuisance at times.”

“He's a parent, luv. It goes with the territory.”

“Are you a parent?”

“Not as far as I know. I'm not even married.” He picked up the bottle of Puligny Montrachet. “More wine?” he asked, in an undisguised attempt to change the subject.

She nodded. “So why did you want to see me?”

“To tell you what I know.”

“That's a bit lame. You could have told me over the phone.”

“Would you be offended if I said I wanted to have dinner with you?”

“Depends.”

“On what?”

“Your ulterior motive.”

“Do I have to have one?”

“You'd be the first man I've ever been out with who didn't.”

“So what are my motives?”

She raised her eyebrows. “I think that's one question we can both answer. Don't you Chief Inspector?”

Margaret had cooked dinner — nothing fancy. Difficult to believe she owns a restaurant, thought Bliss, already bored with tinned stew. They had eaten by the light of an oil lamp in front of a log fire while Bo lay at their feet sharpening his teeth on a giant bone, malevolently eyeing Bliss from time to time, as if to say. “Just practicing—you're next mate.”

Margaret and Bliss were two strangers hiding behind barricades, each waiting for the other to crack. Margaret's work-hardened, compact body was still stiffly bound with an intensity that troubled Bliss. The Natives, or whatever she had seen in the bottom of their canoe, still had her gripped.

“You could write a book about your life,” said Bliss, attempting to thaw her.

“I've scribbled bits and pieces,” she replied unenthusiastically. “I've given it some thought.”

“Can I read it?” he asked brightly, hoping to find in her writing some opening gambit on which to pry into her past.

Her shaking head dispelled his hopes. “It's only scratchings. I'd be too embarrassed to let anyone see it.”

She caught his look of disappointment and made a decision. “I have written a poem though,” she said, rising and making her way toward one of the bookcases.

At last, thought Bliss, heart in mouth.

Returning to the table with a slim leather-bound book, its gilt-edged pages glinting in the lamplight, she sat opposite him, on Bo's couch. “This is a poem I wrote about living alone on an island,” she said. “I call it ‘Shipwrecked.'” Then she started reading, and he found himself strangely enchanted by her lisp.

“Life passes by with a whisper of breeze,

Rippling the waves and stirring the trees;

But, spurned and rejected, goes on its way:

Life, on an island, holds no sway.”

She looked up, checking his reaction. Entranced by the pencil-thin scar on her lip, wishing he could kiss it better, he urged her on with a nod. She bent, as if to read, yet pulled every word straight from her heart.

“Time in the fast lane rushes by

From the time of birth 'til the time you die;

But e'en though the sun sets day after day,

Time, on an island, holds no sway.

“Buy this or that, dog, goat, or cat,

Brand new knickers or a saucy hat,

But here you can put your wallet away:

Wealth, on an island, holds no sway.

“Love of another, abjured and denied,

Lust unappeased with a tear in the eye,

Shipwrecked, marooned, and cast away,

Love, on an island, holds no sway.

“Hope fades fast but lingers long

For the shipwrecked sailor and his plaintive song;

In a search for a saviour both far and away,

Hope, on an island, holds no sway.”

She closed the book with sad deliberation.

“That's wonderful,” he cried, oblivious to the darkness within the verse. “Have you written anything else?”

“Nothing worth reading,” she replied, running her tongue self-consciously over her lip, and quickly returned the book to the shelf, indicating her unwillingness to share further.

Bliss got the message and changed the subject, laying the groundwork for the questions he wanted to ask about her relationship with her father. “I suppose you'll go back to England now your father's gone.”

She shook her head. “No.”

“What about the restaurant?”

“What about it?” she asked, sitting to face him.

“You could run it now.”

“No, I couldn't.”

“Of course you can. There's no reason why you shouldn't. Your father's dead. You're his only living relative, aren't you?”

“I said, I couldn't,” she enunciated forcefully, her words filled with meaning.

Her seriousness confused him. “Why?”

She was quiet, hesitant. “He had a partner — a silent partner. He left everything to him.”

“I'm sorry, I didn't know.”

“There are a lot of things you don't know.”

He nodded, but his mind was on the murder of her father. At least that eliminates her, he thought. Not that she ever was a suspect. She had no opportunity. Now she had no motive either.

Rising to stand over him, she continued: “Why don't you just tell me who you really are?”

“I'm a detective inspector…” he began, but she rounded on him furiously.

“That's not who you are. That's what you do. I mean, who
are
you? What the hell are you doing here?” She held up her hand, she was on a roll. “And don't give me that crap about wanting an adventure. You're no more adventuresome than… than… than…” She was stuck. “… Than vanilla ice cream.”

Dumbfounded by her attack, he didn't answer. His eyes swept up her boyishly trim body, mentally undressing her, appraising her angrily clenched buttocks and pert little breasts, then focussing on the imperfection of her mouth. Sympathy, compassion, and animalistic desire coalesced and he came up with the classic locker room reaction to all women's ails. What she needs is a good screwing, he thought, then mentally kneed himself in the groin. This was Margaret he was thinking about, Melanie's sister, not some tart or neglected suburban housewife. He still hadn't answered her question though — what was he doing there? She helped him out: “I came here to escape. Why did you come?”

“I guess I'm escaping as well.”

“What from?”

“Life, responsibilities, failure, I suppose. Failure mainly.”

“Failure?”

“I've lost a lot of things recently,” he replied. Explaining everything. Explaining nothing.

“Life's all about losing things, Dave,” she said sadly.

The voice of experience, he thought. But what could he have lost compared to her? Sister, mother, father, her entire family — even her inheritance. “My losses are minimal…” he began, but stopped himself. “Christ I'm beginning to sound like a book now. What I mean is, you've lost everything.”

“Maybe,” she said. “But what's that to you? You didn't just wash up on my beach by accident.”

“No,” he admitted, “I wanted to meet you, to talk to you.” Then he put on his policeman's voice. “Margaret, I have to ask you some questions. Will you please sit down.”

She gave him a questioning look, as if challenging his resolve. “This sounds as if it could be serious,” she said, starting to sit.

“It is. Very serious.”

She popped back up. “Before we start, would you like a drink?”

Confused, he replied, “I thought…”

She finished the sentence for him. “That I don't approve of drink. I don't normally,” she said. “But under the circumstances…” She reached down and pulled a bottle from under the couch. “Emergency supplies. Medicinal purposes only.”

“Medicinal purposes?”

“I've got the feeling that you're going to hurt me.”

At last, she'd opened the door. He gratefully seized the proffered drink, and felt the neat Scotcth burn his
throat with a reassuring warmth. “What would you say if I told you I never really believed your sister's death was an accident?”

Deep contemplation glazed her eyes. She stood, grappling with the concept, and poured herself a larger shot. “I would say that you should have mentioned it twenty years ago. It's a bit late now.”

Bliss shook his head. “Legally, it's not too late. There is no statute of limitations for an indictable offence.”